“You may not be my daughter, but you will stay in my city. I’m going to keep you safe.”

My father walked the streets of New York like he owned the pavement, and this man was no different. He dropped his keys in his pocket and strolled across the dock like all he saw was his. He bounded up the gangway, glanced up and down the deck, and disappeared into the ship.

I bruised my shoulder slamming it against that door and cracked my one unblemished fingernail attacking the handle. I did not consider shattering the glass until I heard the woman’s scream. It came from the street—a sharp cry, quickly silenced, short enough that even the kindest New Yorker could tell themselves that they hadn’t heard a thing.

Two people dragged a woman onto the dock, her slender frame as limp as a bag of straw. Her delicate curls, which looked slightly ridiculous on a woman her age, were mussed. Without seeing her face, I could tell it was Juliette Copeland who had been blackjacked and kidnapped. I did not recognize the Fourth Precinct cop who held her left elbow, but I saw the face of the woman who held the right, the woman with the rifle slung over her shoulder and the devil’s smirk upon her face.

It was Juliette Copeland too.

She hadn’t been a stowaway on that steamer. She had been the pilot. Thorne’s partner, his sniper, who killed her father for reasons unfathomable and came to this other New York to do the same to a girl who looked very much like herself. And we had given her directions to Mary Fall.

I lay on my back and kicked both feet at the door window. It didn’t crack. I clambered into the backseat and searched the floor for a toolbox, a jack, a spare wrench. It was bare.

The Juliette I knew, who mourned Galen Copeland but asked me not to bother investigating his death, hauled her double up the gangway without stopping for breath. She was at the ship’s rail when she saw me struggling to escape the car, shook her head, and smiled.

The glove box was locked, but it wasn’t as sturdy as the door. One kick, and it flopped open. I was hoping to find a spare pistol—one of the thousands of guns that seemed to litter this city—but I found nothing but handcuffs, maps, a desiccated sandwich, and a few blank notebooks. I tossed the junk aside and struck gold. Behind the notebooks, I found a nightstick.